The Last Song of the Sirens
by Trixter82
Summary: I am in love with a man who is in love with a ghost. This is the story of the final year, my story. My name is Denise Digby and I am the last lover of Robin Hood. RobinMarian RobinOC, S2 spoilers
1. Chapter Zero

**_The Last Song of the Sirens_**

**Chapter Zero**

I am in love with a man who is in love with a ghost.

When I lie by his side in the early morning hour the truth behind these words are sharp like the crisp air, and they tug on my attention like a numbly burning ache. My eyes flutter open to the relative darkness of the outlaw camp, and there are still soft snores coming from the other beds. Neither of us knows it yet but this morning, which I choose to call fateful but at the time doesn't think much about, is the last we will spend together, and it looks exactly the same as every other morning. Robin sleeps silently, as if he is hiding even in sleep, but his slumbering is not a relaxed state of mind. He lies squeezed into the corner and I cling to his disinterested body - as if the physical proximity can make up for his emotional distance - letting my fine, blond hair drape across his chest. Then Robin murmurs something in his sleep, gives out a sigh and his head falls to the side so that I can see the scowl which claims his face now that he cannot resist it.

I suppose we both thought his loss would subside once we acknowledged our attraction towards each other. 'Moving on' he called it. Yet instead of disappearing the loss morphed, found new shapes and corners where we failed to fight it. I refuse to say out year together has been miserable, but it never became what we wanted it to be. He cares for me, loves me even, because I was the soothing balm which helped him to see life again. I, on the other hand, love him beyond reason, with every fibre of my soul - like I suspect that he still loves _Her._ I have accepted the differences in our commitment because a little piece of Robin Hood is better than nothing at all, but it is a lonely feeling to carry two people through a relationship. I know he wouldn't have pursued it unless I had been so persistent. He chose to love me because it was easier, and because he wanted it so badly a bond grew between us from sheer willpower. He forced himself into this to survive, and here I am the valiant rescuer. Forgive me if I sound bitter – on this day only one person of the still living has a bigger chunk of Robin's heart than I do, so I should be grateful. The one who he loves more is called Isabella and I feel no jealousy towards her; she is his daughter after all.

I should present our ghost as well, since she has a leading role in all of this - so big in fact, that she can be referred to as simply 'Her', and there is no doubt as of who I am speaking. Her name is Lady Marian and I have never met her. She is a hovering shadow, his wife, his love, his world. No matter how much of myself I give to him he will always love her more. That is the cause of my bitterness, but we have both learned to live with it.

Now Robin's eyes flutter open and then he gives me one of those looks – confused as if he doesn't quite know who I am or what I am doing here. He always belongs to _Her_ in the morning, even as he smiles and gives me a wet kiss on my waiting lips.

"Moring, Denise," he murmurs absently.

"Morning, my love," I respond. Then he rolls up into a sitting position and swings his legs over the bunk which we share, stretching his arms to wake the tired limbs to a new day. He will leave the camp with some vague excuse, take his bow and be gone for an hour. I must let him miss her, so I push down the pain of his distance and see him disappear out through the door.

This is our last day, but because I am a bard, I will start at the beginning of my tale and let the rest of this day wait. It is now nearly a year ago that I first came to Sherwood Forest, and that is where our journey shall begin. Forgive me, I have presented Him and Her, but am yet to introduce myself – the bearer of the eyes which I will lend you and the mistress of the voice which you will hear.

My name is Denise Digby, the last lover of Robin Hood, and this is my story.

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**_A/N:_ So this is chapter zero - b/c it is set before the fic starts - of a short multichapter fic (Chapter 0-7 I think). **

**This fic is different from anything else I have written for several reasons:  
-It is my first attempt to write in first person. The entire fic will be written from the eyes of an oc.  
-It is extremely oc based. I don't like it when oc:s take over a fic, but Denise is more like the eyes and the voice of the fic, which is actually about Robin.  
-It ships Robin with an oc. I hate that lol. But Robin/Marian is the superios ship, which is why I get away with it**

**This fic may or may not have two alternative endings, depending on fan reactions.**

**I hope someone gives it a chance**

**xxxTrixxx**

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	2. Chapter One

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter One**

Once upon a time in Sherwood, a woman bard walked a lonely road through the forest, with her lute as her only company. You may imagine me as a wandering scarecrow, since everything about me is long and flat and gangly, and I wore a tattered cloak which covered me from head to ankle. My straight, blonde hair was braided and slung across my shoulder so that it rested on my chest like a rope, tightly twisted into an intricate pattern which slimmed off towards the end. The last bit had been entwined with a red and a blue ribbon but that was the only adornment I had. For an entertainer my appearance was simple, my clothes dull in colour and contrasted sharply to my vividly painted lute. Like my ribbons it was red and blue, the colours of a fresh bruise, I used to tell those who asked me about it.

Had I only refrained from singing, I might have made my way though the forest unscathed. A solitary vagrant in a cheep, gray cloak is not a target to anyone, but a lonely woman can never be safe. I had it in me to be over-confident in the face of looming danger – a flaw which I am ashamed to attribute myself. A fist was just a fist and I knew how to duck, so in spite of considering myself jaded I was in fact horribly naïve. To me the tales of outlaws and savage beasts hiding in the forest belonged to my lute and had little to do with reality. Because of that my voice vibrated clear and loud through the deceptive tranquillity of the forest, and somewhere nearby it distracted a group of poachers from their work.

To this day I do not know the names of these men, but their faces have been burned to the inside of my eyelids. Occasionally I still have nightmares, still hear the first rustling in the bushes and the cold trickle down my spine, telling me that something was horribly wrong. It is easier to regret than to think ahead, so I stopped, let my voice trail off into a whisper and listened to the forest in order to pin down the reason to my sudden wariness. Yet it was all so deep inside me, just an instinct which I was too inexperienced to form into concrete facts. I hesitated and turned around, wondering if I should walk back or continue ahead. It wouldn't have mattered either way because by then I was already watched. I secured my lute over my shoulder, hiding it under my thick mantle since it was my most prized possession. I was still more scared that I would get robbed than anything else, and it never occurred to me that a handful of copper coins, some cheese and bread, two flutes, a small drum, some bells and an old lute were petty loot even for the most desperate robbers.

I turned my head from side to side and watched the forest as I backed cautiously to the wayside, bending down to pick up a gnarled bough from the ground. It was slippery and ungainly, but if I had been more attentive I should have noticed how light it was and chosen another weapon. As it was I gripped around it hard with both my hands and took on an inexperienced fighting stance, my legs wide apart and my back crouched as if I already ducked from a blow.

The first sound of my company was laughter, followed by the rustling of leaves and a low thud behind my back. I spun around and lifted my stick with a yelp of surprise, backing off as I was finally faced with the threat. There were three of them, or four or five. One had a hound in a leash and one of the king's deer slung across his shoulder, while another carried a bundle of dead rabbits tied together with a rope. They weren't particularly dirty or tattered men, not did they grin evilly or grunt like animals. Whatever picture I had of thugs it was nothing like this. They were men, just that and neither more nor less. They weren't crazy or savage and the one who first caught my attention had a fair, almost girlish face. He was the one who now lifted a stick and leaped at me, causing me to shout out again and meet the blow with my own bough. It only took that one strike to cause my slapdash weapon to snap with the hollow sound of rotten wood, and I was met with a choir of laughs from the ring of men as I watched the useless stub still clutched in my hands. Then there was a grip of two arms lifting me from behind and I felt air replacing the ground beneath my feet, kicking helplessly as I was wedged by the unfriendly embrace. I could feel his breath against my neck, warm and strained as if the situation aroused him, and that was when the real danger of the situation finally occurred to me. It was not my lute and a chunk of cheese that they wanted - it was me. Fear gripped around me and then I screamed, primal yells of fury and panic which echoed through the forest.

The men kept laughing, as if my terror and futile resistance amused them. "Hush, hush," the fair one exclaimed in a rolling, northern accent. "Save your screams for later, lass. We will give you more pleasant reasons to call out."

Another one of the men gave out some moans in a high-pitched voice, causing his friends to laugh all the louder. I twisted and kicked, causing the man who held me to shift his grip and hug me harder. "Slippery lil' thing," he grunted.

"Don't wear yourself out, lass," the fair man smiled. "Let us do that for ye."

Yet my screams were the only opposition I still had in me so I continued screaming until my voice was raspy and broken. Somehow they moved me further into the forest without me noticing, and when they threw me down of the ground with a wet thud there was nothing but trees and strange men all around me. I felt dizzy and sick with terror and tried to pull down my dress over the leg which now lay exposed in the damp leaves, pale with a bruise - acquired from a rather drunken night in Scarborough some days ago - on my bony knee. The pale hairs on my calf rose and I choked back a sob, drawing in air to give out another scream into the uncaring forest. My face was red and distorted but the men looked amused as they watched me.

"Shan't you run, lass?" one of them asked in a low purr. "We lads like a good hunt."

I gave him a glare full of disdain and took a deep breath to call out again, wishing beyond hope that someone would hear me.

"Let her go."

The voice which cut into the atmosphere seemed alien, so soft yet brimming with authority and a poorly veiled threat that it silenced everyone, in spite of not being very loud. I choked back my next scream into a pitiful whimper and crawled to my knees, trying to catch a glimpse of this newcomer as the ring of men turned to a slope to the left of me. I could see a man dressed in a moss green hood, leaving only a crescent of his face exposed - a tense mouth and a stubbly jaw. It looked unkempt like the face of the thugs in my head, as I had always imagined rascals and outlaws when I sung my ballads, only a bit too boyish. He had a lean frame and he was holding a strange bow, aimed and ready to release an arrow fletched with undyed feathers at my capturers.

The fair man lifted his hands in a gesture of peace, instantly backing off. "We have no quarrels with ye, Robin," he said.

"Really?" the man called Robin responded softly. "It doesn't look like that from where I'm standing. Release the girl."

"Wha's sche to you?" another one of the men asked with a pronounced lisp.

"She is a woman of the people. She is everything for me. Release her."

"And if we don't?" the fair man asked, lowering his arms to rest of the skinning knife in his belt. "We outnumber you, Robin."

"I have fed your family," Robin snapped and locked his eyes with the fair man, who was apparently the natural leader of the poachers. "Will you go home to tell Hannah you killed Robin Hood today? Your wife is a good woman."

"It's been a long time since you fed us, Robin," the fair man murmured, but he backed off and seemed to revaluate the situation. "A'right," he finally said. "Have her then."

There was some displeased murmurs coming from the group of poachers, but they followed the lead of the fair man and gave me some space. One after one they dispersed, until there was no one but me and the man called Robin Hood left. I watched him warily with my knees and hands in the damp soil and dodged back slightly, like an animal ready to flee. Yet he lowered his bow and put back the arrow into his quiver, pulling the hood from his head with one smooth movement. Then I saw my rescuer for the first time and my heart thudded once in my chest, a single beat which rippled though my body and landed in my stomach, flapping and tingling down into my abdomen. I breathed out sharply through my nose and felt a small smile tugging my lips. Through the haze of startling desire he seemed beautiful like an uncut diamond.

Robin came over to kneel beside me, his expressive eyes concerned but red, as if he had been in tears or not slept well. Up close his stubble seemed even more unkempt and his hair was in a mess, he smelled of sweat and something else which I did not feel like interpreting further. It was the smell of a man who had walked too long in the same clothes and did not care if he slept and stood in the same underskirt that he had been wearing for a month. He looked vulnerable and sad like a child who was lost deep in some nightmare and did not seem to find a way out. All this I could read from him just by this look, and I felt like I had come upon him in a time that he had reserved for himself, uncovering a secret just by being at the right place in the right time. The bard in me cheered as it always did faced with a story yet to be told.

He put a palm gingerly on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly, giving me a look which was naturally warm but reserved.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and I nodded, for once in my life at loss for words. "Where are you from? I will get my lads and we shall get you home."

"I'm from nowhere," I said truthfully, "or from everywhere."

"You're on your own?"

"Aye," I smiled faintly, suddenly realizing how exhausted I felt.

"You should not be on your own in the forest," he stated and gave my shoulder a gentle pat. "It is dangerous. You will have to come back to my camp - then we can decide what to do with you."

I only felt guarded for a moment before I nodded and took his hand as he helped me stand. With a sudden pang of fear I reached for my lute, but found that it was unharmed and stroked my beloved instrument tenderly.

"You are a minstrel?" he asked curiously.

"I call myself a travelling bard," I corrected him with a small smile. "But you may call me a minstrel or a trobairitz, or a fool, if you like."

"A fool," he cocked his eyebrow and gave me rather flippant smile, something which rhymed very poorly with his general air of lingering gloom. "A fool you must be to travel alone on these roads, bardess." He reached out his hand to me and I had no time to dry the dirt from my palm before he hugged it. "I am Robin Hood," he smiled. "You may have heard of me."

"I have not," I admitted, and nearly burst out laughing by the indignant expression in his eyes.

"You are a bard and have not heard of me?" he exclaimed. "Do you never listen to the stories of your peers?"

"My peers tell tales which would make a sailor blush," I smiled. "So no, unless they manage to spark my attention I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to their ramblings. Forgive me if I have insulted you."

"No, no, I'm not insulted," he responded absently and frowned. "I just think I may need to employ someone to get my message out if a professional bard can miss it."

I laughed gently. "Well, Robin Hood, my name is Denise Digby, and if your story is a good one then I promise to tell it."

With those words his face lighted up in a small smile and for the second time I felt my heart leap.

That was the first time I met Robin Hood. It would take some time before I managed to draw the story from his friends and learned that he was nearly a year into grieving his lost wife. Even though I saw the sadness which cloaked him as soon as we fell into a silent walk through the forest, I could not know the source of it. He was a mystery, and my curiosity nearly burned a hole in my skin so eager I felt to disentangle his secrets one by one - like you comb out the tresses of a long, curly hair before you braid it for the night. He already had me in a steady grip, even though he did nothing to encourage my infatuation, and from that day a year of my life was his and his alone.

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**_A/N:_ Thanx for Littlemissmaster and Jonasluva for commenting :)**

**xxxTrixxx**

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	3. Chapter Two

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter Two**

My choice to stay in the camp was never consciously done. Somehow life with the outlaws became a routine or a habit, and then they stopped asking where I was heading next. There were only four of them in the camp at this time. Little John was the one who seemed to take me beneath his wings from the very first day I stepped into the secret location. I remember being fascinated by him, this huge, gentle man who said so little yet made me feel welcome with the tiniest gestures. When we ate he gave me a plate and sat down next to me so that I didn't have to sit alone in my bunk, which used to belong to someone called 'Jack'. It was situated in the corner, a discreet distance from the rest of the gang and hidden behind a drape.

On my first night I had found strange things in the bunk, doubtlessly belonging to the previous owner. There were two books – one written in Latin, but it dealt with subjects which I could not understand, and one filled with strange, curly letters, which I couldn't even read. There were other things as well. Pouches with dried herbs, vials with fluids, a tiny rug rolled into a cylinder and different things used for the morning toilette. Furthermore I found scraps of linen cloth and some clothes which seemed to have a female owner, judging by the way they were reinforced in strategic places.

"She was a girl, this Jack?" I asked Little John curiously during one of our meals, and he nodded. "Why was she here?"

"She had no where else to be," he shrugged.

"Until she left?"

"Until she stayed behind," Little John grunted and filled his mouth with a large chunk of dark boar meat.

I picked in my food and looked over at Robin who ate with a sort of focused energy, which didn't seem to give him much pleasure beyond the purely nutritional value. He was so distant, and with my wide knowledge in chivalric prose I assumed it to be a failed love story which haunted him.

"Was it her that he loved?" I asked Little John who flinched and stared at me in surprise. He shook his head reluctantly and scooped up the remaining stew with a piece of bread.

"No, that would be Marian," he sighed.

I remember thinking then that Marian was a good name for a heroine, making up a story in my head even as the jealousy hit me with the full force of my budding love. "She married someone else?" I questioned my big friend.

"No," John grunted and rose from his seat. "The lass died."

As John walked away I looked at Robin with a new kind of understanding, or at least I thought I understood. It became my purpose to learn to know this ghost, and if Robin stole my heart a week ago this was the moment that _She_ claimed my soul. Her tragic story became my obsession, and because she haunted him she haunted me as well. I walked across the room to sit next to Robin, and he looked up at me with a swift smile.

"It's a pretty name, Marian," I asked casually and watched the smile in his face die out.

"It is," he agreed solemnly. The words seemed to hurt so much that I let the subject slip, deciding that I could bide my time. Eventually we would know each other better and then he would talk to me.

These first weeks in the camp were slow for me. I am no fighter so I stayed behind when they left for raids, and I took on some of Much's chores. Perhaps it was this way of silently helping him out which warmed him up to me at last, because my way of always lingering by Robin's side made him rather suspicious towards me. It was his territory to help Robin, and he treated this special bond with possessive jealousy. The more I got to know Robin the more scarred I realized that he truly was, and it was discouraging for someone who was set of saving him. Sometimes they would return from some raid and there would be a tension between him and the other outlaws, as if they accused him of doing a poor job and questioned his leadership. It was odd to be because in my eyes he seemed so perfect – a true leader of the nation and a flawless hero of the people.

"Robin," Much said one of these days. Robin had trotted rapidly into the sleeping quarters as soon as they came back, and his jaw was set tightly when he turned around to face his old manservant. There was a dark cloud around the outlaw's leader, somewhere between anger and despair, which barred all doors to an openhearted conversation.

"What?" he snapped.

"We need to talk. This does not work, Robin."

"I think it worked fine," he sneered and became instantly defensive, walking up to face Much with his features twisted into a scowl.

"You cannot let Guy distract you," Much insisted, although he looked insecure faced with Robin's rage and fell back slightly. "If you get caught--"

"I will not get caught!"

"You might! It is this—well, you know. It makes you irrational! We all think it Robin, it's not just me."

Robin snorted and turned around, walking angrily into the sleeping quarters where he climbed into his bunk. Much followed and the rest of us formed a ragged tail.

"It is Marian," Much insisted and his voice had a tang of disdain. "You just don't think when she is involved."

"Marian is dead in case you have forgotten," Robin scoffed.

"How could I forget, she is the camp ghost." I smiled faintly at Much's choice of words, since he had stolen them from me. It was how I had referred to her when Robin wasn't listening. Robin's sulking silence filled the room as we all waited for him to respond. Gently I tugged Much's shirt and lowered my voice into a whisper.

"What happened?" I asked curiously. By then I knew the nature of Marian's demise and Gisbourne's further crimes against Robin, but was yet to see the loathed man in person.

"The sheriff is up to something," Much explained softly. "We went to the castle for some reconnaissance, but Gisbourne—well, Gisbourne was there. Alone. So Robin broke out from our hiding and they—shuffled each other around."

"Like little lads fighting over a honeycake," Allan murmured bitterly. "Every time they see each other it's all thumping and whacking n' then neither can stand up straight. It's daft if you ask me."

"It distracted us and we still don't know what the sheriff's up to," Much stated in a rare moment of siding with Allan. "Except that it is in the vicinity of Merton."

"Oh," I said and looked in compassion at Robin's bunk.

"Look at 'im," Allan exclaimed edgily and threw out his palm at the outlaw leader. "Just like a lad, right? Fights alike a little lad n' sulks just like one. We don't run a bloody day-care centre for broken hearts, do we?" He walked up to Robin and gave his bed a kick, making it rattle alarmingly. "Oi! Get up," he called out. "Robin! Stop this nonsense and get a grip, mate!"

Much shifted uneasily and gave out a sigh at Allan's complete lack of subtlety.

"Easy, Allan," Little John said warningly and pulled the impatient outlaw back.

"I just don't know what to do," Much murmured and shrugged dejectedly. "I'm out of ideas, just-- out of them. I don't know how to help you Robin. I love you but I cannot--" he shrugged again. "I just _cannot_!"

Something in Robin's silence changed, and as he slid out from his bunk the look which he gave us was frustrated but remorseful. He still carried armour so strong that we had no idea how to penetrate it. "You don't have to help me," Robin murmured. "You are my dear friend - that is enough."

"It's not enough though, is it?" Much asked into the air as Robin picked up his bow and quiver and started to walk towards the door. The outlaw leader stopped and turned with an apologetic expression in his face, as if to say that he was sorry but unable to do anything about the situation. "I cannot bring Marian back so I am useless."

"Much! You are not useless! I'm just—I need to be on my own a while." Robin said, letting his words trail off into a murmur. Then he turned around and walked briskly out from the stale room, which smelled so much of earth that I sometimes had nightmares about being buried alive in it.

I followed him. Back then I had some vague idea that I would be able to save Robin when Much failed, like a fresh breath of air. A woman's love could replace another - that was how I imagined it. In all likelihood I was being naïve again, but I was in love and my belief in myself saw no limits. When he finally stopped I expected him to start shooting, but instead he just picked up a single arrow and discarded the rest on the forest floor. He sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees and stroked the feathers on the arrow with a feverish intensity. I don't know if I had expected him to cry but it surprised me that there was such a lack of reaction. For a while I simply stood and watched this man and his arrow, unsure how to approach him but unable to turn away.

"I'm not a work of art," he finally said and lifted his head to look right at me, making me recoil and blush with embarrassment. "There is only so much time you can spend watching me, Denise."

I smiled to myself and thought that he was wrong. There was no limit to the time I could spend watching this man. Yet instead of pointing this out, I walked up to him and sat down by his side, placing my long fingers on his arm. The sensation of his muscle beneath the cloth made my heart pound but I ignored the desire, licking my lips as if that one gesture would remove the tension which claimed my body in his proximity.

"What happened today?" I asked cautiously. "Why were they so mad?"

"Didn't Much tell you?"

"There is a different story to every observer," I smiled and he looked at me with a strange expression of gratitude.

"I was angry," he responded softly.

"Did you have a right to be?"

"Yes," he smiled absently lifting his hand from the arrow to touch my fingers gingerly, "and no."

I watched hypnotized as the back of his hand grazed my knuckles and tried vainly to fight my beating heart. I cannot read minds so I do not know what went on inside him in that moment, only that the attention he had shown the arrow was shifted to me instead. Slowly a heat built up between his skin and mine and my breathing became heavier. Perhaps that was what he noticed because when he looked up at me briefly his eyes were suddenly clouded by desire.

Blood surged in my ears with every violent heartbeat as Robin shut his eyes and moved his hands to grip around my head. I could feel him tremble against me, by want or by grief, as his lips came crashing to mine. As first kisses go it was savage rather than tender, desperate as if it could somehow drown his demons. I felt like a leaf which was tossed from side to side by the lust which I suspected, or feared, had nothing to do with me at all. Instead of calming down it became more forceful, his fingers clawed against my scalp and tousled my fine blonde hair, and he chewed and sucked and tasted every bit of my lips with such ardour that he scared me. When he finally broke it off and moved away as swiftly as he started, my bones had turned to water and I felt dazed and out of breath. My scalp hurt, my lips were sore and his stubble had scraped my skin, but this all felt so far away. Robin stood up and started to pace back and forth, gripping around his own hair and cursing with his entire body, if not by a single word. Then he moved his hands to rest on his hips and turned to me, his eyes pleading for forgiveness.

"I am sorry," he said sincerely. "I took advantage—I shouldn't have."

I stared at him and shook my head wordlessly, moving my lips to say that it did not matter.

"It's just--" he continued desperately, gesturing with his hand. "It's just that the sheriff is up to something and I have to act. But I cannot think! I cannot—I try but my thoughts are garbled."

"Did I make them clearer?" I asked with a small, gentle smile which took him by surprise.

"You did not," he smiled softly back. "But I need to feel—something. Anger, passion, grief."

"You have been thinking too much about yourself," I stated because I knew it to be true. Men who talked like he did then are of the kind who has spent too much time in deep contemplation, trying to make sense, but instead just burying themselves deeper in the problems.

"You think I am self-indulgent?" he asked cautiously and looked at me with vulnerable eyes.

"No," I smiled. "I think you are sad and need a friend. Someone to hold you and not question your actions."

"And you wish to be that person?"

I smiled and shrugged at him. "If you want me to."

"I do not know what I want anymore," he murmured. He stood for some time and stared at the leaves, and then he flinched as if he suddenly recalled that he wasn't alone and gave me a brief smile. He made a gesture with his head for me to follow him and we started to walk back towards the camp silently.

For the rest of that day I sat beside him and waited patiently for him to speak more about whatever haunted him so badly, but he merely made small talk and cracked a joke or two to ease up the tension between him and his men. He accepted my presence and started to seek it, as if it soothed him to know that I was there, but it was a long time before we kissed again. During that evening and many more to follow I would tune my lute and sing one of my songs to the outlaws – trivial little pieces which were well-paced but poorly rhymed. Allan sometimes mocked me for the bad rhymes, but it was a gentle kind of criticism which I chose to interpret as a kind of acceptance. I was one of the lads now, even though I could not wield a sword or shoot an arrow.

In the weeks and moths that followed the war against the sheriff and his henchman intensified, and so did the dynamics in the camp. I never saw the change in Robin, perhaps because I was in the middle of it, but Much sometimes made a comment to me about him being calmer. I suppose it was his subtle way of expressing gratitude, and sometimes he would give me extra meat on my plate like a sort of bribe or treat to show that I was appreciated and should stay with them. If that was his intention then it was unnecessary. I had already decided that staying was the only viable option.

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**_A/N:_ Thanx for the reviews :)**

**Ese: I have a huge problem with Robin/OC fics (yes, even though I am writing one lol). I don't think I could write him perfectly happy after Marian, although I know that is rather cruel of me... Sorry Robin!**

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	4. Chapter Three

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter Three**

"What was she like?" I asked Robin cautiously and he smiled at me through the soft light of a summer evening.

"Brave," he said. "Stubborn. Proud. Compassionate. Astute."

"Was she beautiful?"

"Yes."

"What did she look like?"

"Well, she was shorter than you," he responded and looked at me as if to tell me not to pursue the subject further. He did not like to talk about _Her _- his ghost, Lady Marian - so his manners were guarded and remote, barring the door I tried to open. Yet my curiosity kept tugging on my mind and I could not let it go. This woman was a part of my life and I wished to know everything about her, as the storyteller that I am. After all a story without a background, stripped of its context, makes little sense. So I rose from the ground, and took a turn around the camp for a more willing source of information. Much and Little John sat in one end, silently sharing a bowl of left-over stew, but I quickly dismissed them as unreliable. Little John was no great talker and Much had never anything bad to say about something concerning his master. I had no wish for flowery speeches about Lady Marian's superiority over all things human, broken by a grunt or a nod from John, so I turned the other way instead. Allan-A-Dale sat slumped by a tree in the other end of the camp, his hands folded behind his head as he chewed absently on a straw. When I moved over to him he gave me rather sulking look, although he shifted his body a bit so that there was room for me on the ground. The last time we measured I had been taller than him and he did not quite find that as funny as the rest of the gang.

"Hello, Allan," I smiled and fell down beside him. "How fare you?"

"A'right," Allan responded suspiciously. "I still think my shoes were flatter."

I laughed and gave him something between a nod and a shrug, as if to show that he could be right. I was taller, but for me that fact didn't matter much, while his masculine pride had been badly wounded.

"Listen Allan," I said. "Would you tell me about Lady Marian?"

"Wha' d'you want to know?" he asked with a shrug, his words slightly garbled by the straw in his mouth.

"Was she pretty? What did she look like? Robin said she was shorter than me."

"Mind you, you are unnaturally tall for a woman," Allan pointed out with a short nod to acknowledge the fact that I was taller than Marian. "She was rounder than you as well. Bigger--" he made a vague gesture over his own flat chest and I felt myself blush. When he saw my unease he shrugged and let his hands fall down. "Just rounder in general."

"What about her eyes?" I asked. "Her hair?"

"Well—they were blue—or green—or gray, mind you. I don't think they were brown," he mused. "Her hair was sort of dung-coloured."

"Chestnut you mean?" I cocked my eyebrow.

"Could be," Allan grinned. "Could 'ave been auburn too though—or black. Definitely not blond like yours."

I rolled my eyes at him and he took out the straw from his mouth, pointing it at me. "She did that a lot," he grinned. "Rolled 'er eyes."

"So," I summed up with a sardonic smile. "She was shorter and rounder than me with big—ehem, and had eyes which weren't brown and hair which was blonder than mine. You think. Oh, and she rolled her eyes a lot. Did you ever even look at the woman?!"

Allan shrugged dismissively and put back the straw into his mouth. "A bloke cannot go gawking all o'er Robin Hood's woman though, can 'e? I'd get a big whack o'er my head if I started ogling 'is lass when e' wasn't looking."

I gave him a tense smile and felt my heartbeat rise at the thought of my next question. "And would you dare ogling me?" I asked in pretended nonchalance, gripping nervously around the grass beneath my palm and digging my fingers into the soil as if to ground myself. He looked up in surprise and broke into a cheeky smile.

"Sure I do, sweetheart," he grinned and edged closer. "All the time."

I felt my heart sink and rose so fast that Allan twitched and stared at me in bewilderment. With some swift strokes I brushed off the soil from my dress and took on a jokingly mocking expression. "I could never be with a man who is shorter than me," I stated arrogantly and walked off before he could see how damp my eyes were. At least_ he_ did not think Robin had any claims on me at all, that was painfully obvious. What Robin thought about the matter I still did not know, but he had still not chosen to pursue our 'relationship' further.

I was ripped from my gloomy thoughts by the sound of a bell which made the group of outlaws spring to their feet. Much launched himself into the sky fastest and cocked his chest and chin so that he resembled a rodent scanning the surroundings for impending danger. Robin was swift as well, took his bow and quiver and strapped on his belt in one smooth movement, and Little John stood up calmly but instantly. He walked over to Allan and slammed his staff in the ground beside the slowest member of the gang, making him flinch and look up at the giant in accusation.

"A'right," he whined, putting up his hands in a sort of defence. "I'm coming. Jeez- where's the fire, it's just a bloody trap going off." He rolled to the side and stood up lazily, strapping on his belt before he formed a little after-troop with me. "Nine times out of ten it's nothing," he murmured with a sigh. "Not being funny but Will set 'em up to go off way too easy."

I smiled at him and nodded in agreement since I didn't care either way. Yet when we reached the trap it turned out that it was not a false alarm at all.

An elder man had his limbs entangled into a net and was hanging helplessly some feet above the ground. He moaned and tried to free his arms, making the sac rock gently from side to side with the creaking noise of ropes being rubbed together. As soon as he became in clear sight Robin ran up to him with his beautiful eyes big in horror.

"Thornton!" he called out and reached up to steady the rocking net. "Allan! Let him down! Now!"

Allan moved over to the release mechanism and caused the rope to slack, making the man fall down clumsily into Robin's embrace.

"Thornton," Robin said again and looked remorseful like a child found out while doing something particularly bad. "My old friend - forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Thornton smiled swiftly and put two reassuring hands on Robin's shoulders. Then I seemed to catch his attention and in an air of civility, which made me think he was a man used to serve others, he came up to me and reached out a hand. "I do not think we have met. My name is Thornton. I am Locksley's steward, so as a matter of fact I have known Master Robin since—well since he was only an idea in his parents' minds."

I shook his hand and smiled. "Denise Digby," I introduced myself. "Master Bard of the Sherwood Court."

"Indeed? Then I bow to you," he joked rather dryly before his smile faltered and he turned back to Robin. "Robin, I hate to spoil this reunion but I fear I bring you grave news."

Robin looked instantly concerned, even though he must have expected as much when this old man came into the forest just to find him.

"Talk, my friend," he said solemnly and put a palm on Thornton's shoulder, guiding him slowly towards the camp.

"I think you have suspected that the sheriff is up to something."

Robin nodded. "Around Merton, we think."

"Yes. And yesterday he made his move." Thornton stopped and turned to Robin, strengthening himself for the rest of his revelation. "He had kidnapped a young child – a girl. Belle is her name - she is six years of age."

"A child!" Little John exclaimed grimly in Robin's place. "Robin, we cannot let him take children!" Robin turned briefly and waved at John to silence him. The outlaws' leader had a wary expression, astute as if he already knew that there must be more to this story.

"What does he want with a child?" Robin asked. "Is she wealthy?"

"No, she lives the life of a peasant," Thornton responded. "It is her blood which he craves, or what it means to _you_, in fact. I have had my eyes on the girl for some years now. Marian and Sir Edward asked me to, but I might have been less cautious than I should have. I do not know how he even found out!"

Robin inhaled sharply through his nose and backed off from Thornton's touch. "Marian?" he said guardedly. "What is this child to her?"

Then Thornton blurted out what we all already had guessed, and he did it mercilessly, without any detours. "It is her child, Robin," he responded. "As for the father - Isabella is seven this summer. You can do the math yourself."

I do not think I have ever seen a man pale as fast as Robin did once the words plummeted down into his world. He staggered as if the sentiment deflated him and collapsed down on his knees in the leaves. The rest of us had formed a ragged ring around him, holding our breaths as we waited for his reaction and kept our own surprise away in advantage of his. Finally he raised his face to look at Thornton in shocked disbelief.

"I have a daughter?" he said silently. "Marian gave me a child?"

Thornton nodded. "We did not know until you were well on the way and she refused to call you back. She always was a proud young lady."

"Her name is Isabella," Robin murmured as he tried to get his mind around the staggering fact that he was a father. Then he leaped to his feet so swiftly that we all recoiled with a twitch and he started to trot to the camp with hurried steps. "The sheriff," he called out to us as we caught up with him, his face set tight and staring grimly into the distance with a kind of focused dedication which I had never seen in him. "The sheriff has my daughter," he hissed in restrained fury. "We are getting her back!"

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**_A/N:_ Candy, Ese and Andy, thank you for the comments!**

**Candy - Sadly, I don't think I have gotten over Marian's demise either. In a way this fic is about Robin/Marian, it's just a different approach to them. **

**Ese - I adore writing oc:s, and I wanted to make Denise a bit different.Glad you like it.  
**

**Andy - I'm glad you enjoy the narrative voice! I wasn't sure I would pull it off b/c it's so different from how I usually write, but this fic was born in such a burst of creativity that I had to give it a shot. **


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

I will be honest with you - I am still ambivalent to Marian's choice of not telling Robin about the child. The ghost of Marian was constantly put on a pedestal in the camp and as this piece of news was revealed no one seemed to even consider the fact that she might have been wrong in her secrecy. To me she seemed like a woman too stubborn and proud to be honest with the man who idolized her, but I guess I was as unforgiving as they were meek. Obviously I never said as much out loud. When we discussed the situation, always behind Robin's back, I took Marian's side like they all did. Because my jealousy was embarrassing, I pointed out that it must have been difficult to be a young woman, sullied and shamed by her love, and it made sense that she tried to put it behind her.

As for the other outlaws, Much was convinced that she would have told Robin eventually - she just had not had the time before she died, or she had been saving it for the perfect moment, or she forgot about it. In spite of his eagerness to explain Marian's actions I think he was the one, apart from me, who found it hardest to forgive her - perhaps because we both loved Robin so much. Little John seemed to think Marian's choice had been best for the child, since Robin only would have risked putting it in danger, and Allan—well, Allan was Allan. He connected with the lie and sympathised with the liar, not the mother. A fresh lie is easy to break, but as it grows old it grows tougher, until you cannot tell the truth without risking a disaster. I suppose he is right, but isn't a person who holds on to a lie, because she fears the consequences of breaking it, both selfish and a coward?

Of course I may be prone to finding faults in Lady Marian and thus render her unworthy of Robin's love. If Marian's heroism was a scam then I might not have been the epilogue, but rather the main act and true heroine of Robin's story. People would forever speak of Robin and his Denise, or so I fantasized. Yet when I tell this story it is essentially still a story of Robin and Marian, because she never fell from grace. Do not get me wrong, I'm sure Robin did love Marian flaws and all, but I will still be bold and suggest that there is a reason to why all saints are dead – a human is only ever perfect in past tense.

I still have only a vague idea of how deep Robin's sense of duty and honour runs, but the guilt he felt about this situation was tangible. The fact that Robin had been missing when he should have been there to protect and look after Marian tormented him. The life they never had suddenly included a child, someone they should have loved and cared for together. Because of this Robin disregarded all other possibilities than the one which meant that he alone was to blame. What I said would have made no difference. Robin seemed to consider Marian's actions flawless and he the only one who failed her. The ghost was now the martyr, the forsaken mother and the victim, not merely the love of Robin's life and his deepest loss.

Robin's mood was always the defining force in the camp. If Robin rained and thundered, then we were all soaking wet. Likewise, if he beamed then he'd be the sun and we all leaped up his rays. The news about his daughter threw his off the beaten track as sure as a wagon stuck in a treacherous groove, and because of that our entire world trembled. When he nearly stumbled over me in his eagerness to get everything done at the same time, I started to fall back. I gave him space and became a woman in the corner, always watching, waiting for a way back in or for him to finally look around and ask himself; "Where is Denise?" Needless to say he never did. Robin's list of priorities had been wiped clean, leaving room for nothing but the unreserved love for a daughter he had never even met.

Forgive me, I ramble when you wish me to continue the story. Eventually came an evening when the pace in the camp slowed down, although it was out of frustration and sheer exhaustion rather than the result of a finished plan. For the first time in a week they all sat down around the table while rain was pouring down outside, and I claimed my place next to Robin on the hardwood bench.

"How does the plan fare?" I asked cautiously, nudging Robin's arm as I did so. He flinched and looked at me with that rushed expression which I had become accustomed to during the last week. When he saw how startled I was by his reaction he softened slightly, but smiled and shook his head rather than answering my question. I felt my heart sink because the way he squeezed my hand was so absentminded, but quickly decided not to back down. I wanted to be a part of this, and for me that was the same as having all the information.

"What do you mean?" I insisted. "Does it not shape up well?"

Robin's shoulders sunk a bit further down towards the table and he looked so uncomfortable that I felt embarrassed for asking him. "There is no plan," he spoke with an edge to every syllable, as if he was spitting accusations at the world rather than simply sharing facts. "She's in the heart of the castle. Her room is locked. There are guards and she is shackled to the wall."

"They have shackled a child?! Like-- _like a dog_!" I asked horrified, yet shamelessly intrigued. I do not like to indulge in misery, but it is undoubtedly the stuff a good story is woven from, and I am at my core a storyteller. "But they cannot possibly-"

"It's the sheriff," Robin sneered in a burst of anger. "There is no such thing as 'cannot possibly'. Nothing is beyond him – nothing!" he took a deep breath and calmed down somewhat, aiming his eyes into the tankard of lukewarm ale which he was fingering nervously. "The sheriff got the key," he added in strained patience. "To the shackles. To get to her we must get to both the keys and the child. They change guards every ten minutes so we will not have enough time to pick the lock inside the room. Orders are to kill the child first if any rescue is attempted."

I noted how he used the term 'the child' about his own daughter, but decided not to point it out. I suppose it was his way to stay detached and professional – something which he must have known was vital. I sunk into the gloomy silence which surrounded the outlaws and chewed my lip as my mind raced to find some solution. If this was a story, I asked myself, how would I have my hero save the day?

"There must be some way," I thought out loud. I hated to see Robin this disheartened and frail to the extent that it was impossible for me to simply let it slip. "There must be maids who have access to Isabella? Perhaps I could impersonate one? I can—pick the lock of the shackles."

Robin frowned and shook his head forcefully. "Absolutely not! It's too dangerous."

"But you could keep them occupied—you are the biggest threat. The outlaws."

"No!"

I let a couple of seconds pass, breathing heavily. As I recall the actual meaning of my plan was slowly starting to catch up with my conviction at this stage of the conversation. The way I saw it, I could help. If I could help then Robin would finally discover me, and if he did—well. He would love me. He would smile at me rather than distant memories. He would bury his ghost. Robin knew that it would be dangerous but I could not yet see that part of the plan, and that is why my heart was beating in anticipation rather than fear. "Why not?" I asked calmly in spite of the violent pounding of my heart. Then I decided to play the trump card. "It is your daughter." I stated and shushed my nagging conscience.

The effect was immediate. Robin's entire body language changed, his breathing fastened and he started to hug his tankard so hard that his knuckles whitened. The mere mentioning of his daughter seemed to send a shock through his body. He stood up and grabbed his bow and quiver while his archer hands trembled like an old woman's gnarled joints, nervously pacing across the rug of spruce branches which made up our floor. I think the sensation of the bow and arrows soothed him because he often fingered on them when he needed to regain focus.

"Robin!" Much called out as he saw his leader take on his cloak and pull up the hood over his head. There had always been a trait of mother hen in Much, and it came alive whenever Robin's behaviour seemed erratic. "Master—what? Robin? Surely you're not going out to target practice in this weather. You will catch your death!"

Robin gave him a swift glare, showing how little he cared about the weather, before he turned back to me and pointed with his bow as an extended finger. "I do not like this, Denise," he said. "If I agree then it is because it is the better of two evils. _If_ I agree."

I nodded mutely, and Robin shifted his weight to his other foot, holding up his bow as if to sling it across his shoulder. Then he seemed to change his mind and instead let the coat drop to the floor, tossing back the bow and quiver amongst his belongings. He sighed as he sat down and decided not to pursue this archery-practice in the rain after all. I could almost feel the air in the camp moving as a collective sigh of relief went from mouth to mouth, but the silence which ensued was not the kind of companionable silence which can rest between dear friends. It was a silence filled with doubt and fear.

"Marian would have been proud if she saw you now."

Much's words, no doubt intended as comfort even though they came across as mere naivety, made Robin flinch as if they burned him, and I gave the clumsy outlaw an irritated look across the table. As I placed a palm on Robin's arm I immediately reacted on how tense it was - his body was a bowstring ready to snap, pulled back so hard that it trembled.

"She resented me for not being there when I should have," he responded in an oddly detached voice. "We should have married first, not last. The order was all wrong. I failed her. What kind of father--"

"You didn't know you were a father tough," Allan shrugged, as if this simple fact resolved the whole issue.

"For once Allan is not entirely wrong," Much added reluctantly. "Surely if you had known you would have stayed behind."

"Would I?" Robin asked with a crooked smile and held on to Much's eyes.

"Of course you would!" Much responded indignantly, but I noticed how he seemed increasingly uncertain as he continued. He was more used to trusting Robin's judgement than his own after all. "Well—wouldn't you?"

"Now we will never know," Robin shrugged with a shadow of a smile and rose so fast that the table rattled. "Never mind. What is done is done. We better make it an early night, lads. We have things to take care of in the morrow." Then he stopped and looked directly at me, his attention so intense that it made me shiver.

"Can you pick a lock?" he asked, and I felt my heart starting to thud all over again.

"I can learn," I stated confidently. "After all, I can tune a lute."

Robin granted me a small smile and nodded. "Good," he said. "I have given your idea the attention it deserves, Denise. I still don't like to involve you but we may not be left with any other choice. Are you sure you are prepared to risk your life for this? I cannot ask that of you."

I nodded mutely at Robin and pressed my lips together to not smile in triumph. _This is it_, I remember thinking with all the naïve certainty I could master. I had found the way into his heart, and it went right past this child of his. I truly thought that helping him save Isabella would be enough. Once he had her his demons would be put to rest and I could have him to myself. Robin looked plagued and regretful even as he nodded his half-acceptance to my 'plan', but I was filled with nothing but enthusiasm. In truth I didn't even give it a fleeting thought about the dangers until I was standing outside the gates of Nottingham Castle - armed with nothing but a table dagger and a blunt lock-pick beneath my eggshell-coloured apron.

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**_A/N:_ Thanx for the comments!**

**_Littlemissmaster:_ yeah, I wish Marian came back as well... But that won't happen in this fic anyway.**

**_Not-being-sarcy:_ fics set in heaven is not really my piece of cake tbh... Also, Robin has already chosen Marian, in spite of her being dead... But thnx for the tip. :)  
**

**_Ese: _Well, since this is written from Denise's POV, some questions, like Marian's reasons for keeping the child from Robin, will never really be answeared more than as Denise's personal musings on the subject. I do think keeping it a secret is quite in character for Marian though.  
**

**The next chapter is better than this imho, b/c I prefer action/drama to reflective chapters. Hope this was alright anyway**

**xxxTrixxx**


	6. Chapter Five

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter Five**

I had never been in a castle. I had never worked as a maid. I had certainly never picked a lock or even considered breaking the law. It was too risky. Yet I found myself walking though Nottingham Castle with a lock-pick and a bundle of linen in my arms, swaying my straight hips because the dress was the kind of dress which makes you want to sway your hips when you walk. It made a swishing sound which was soothingly rhythmical, something which could not be said about my heartbeats. Every breath I took felt strained, and I tried the best I could not to let my long, slender limbs turn to water and seep through the floor.

This chapter must be preceded by a stipulation. The truth is, though I wish I could somehow give you the full story of our raid to the castle, sadly I cannot. I never saw Robin valiantly shooting his arrows, splitting the first in two with the next to show off his brilliance, or swinging his Saracen sword with the slyness of a fox and a cat's agility. I'm sure he was a beauty to behold. I'm sure Little John's strength would have taken your breath away if I could tell you the motions of his staff, and you would have laughed at Allan and Much when they bickered even in the heat of battle. This is how I imagined the part of the plan which I never experienced, but even though my ears pricked up at every faint sound, I didn't even catch a distant clinging of clashing metal. Perhaps it didn't happen like that at all. Perhaps it was ugly. Perhaps Allan cheated and Much ran. Perhaps John cried and Robin killed blindly. I wouldn't know – not in this phase of the plan. What was to occur later on I will tell you in vivid detail, but now I fear I'm running way ahead of myself.

Let us instead follow me as the guards, to my great surprise, let me into Isabella's chamber without any ado. My first impression of the room was that it was naked but not uncomfortable, dominated as it was by a large fireplace and a bed, but it had no adornments and nothing which gave away that it was the residence of a child. Nothing, that is, except the small, chestnut head which rested on the pillow. The first thing I saw of Robin Hood's daughter was this nest of silken curls, frail and flowing as they draped down across her face and neck. Something in the child's posture made me certain that she was awake, watching me between the strands of hair, but she didn't say anything to acknowledge my presence. For a moment I simply stood there speechless and watched the shape beneath the blanket which rose and sunk in deceivingly calm breaths. Standing in that room it occurred to me for the first time that Belle was a potential threat, not only the blessing that I had imagined her as. Like me Belle would claim Robin's love, but unlike me she who would get it without any reservations. If she did not approve of me then Robin would choose her. She was a judge and that scared me, as did her obvious ties with Marian. Perhaps having her around would tie Robin's dead wife closer to him rather than enable him to let go of her?

It was because of these selfish thoughts that a part of me wanted to run even as I stepped up to the Isabella and kneeled down by the bed. Then her eyes met mine and I could feel the ice in my heart melt in an instant, simply because she was a child and had her father's eyes.

The first gaze Isabella gave me was defiant and undaunted. I got the impression that she wasn't hiding because she was shy, but rather had me mentally weighed and measured. I smiled warmly and put a hand on her head, felt her heat beneath my palm and lowered my voice into a whisper.

"Isabella is it?" I whispered with a nervous smile. "My name is Denise. I have come to help."

For a couple of moments Isabella remained still, before I felt her shift beneath my palm as she slowly sat up. There was a rustling sound of metal and nearly choked when my eyes fell upon the heavy chains which weighed down Belle's tiny wrists.

"Denise who?" she whispered back with her face twisted into a suspicious scowl, eyeing me sceptically.

"Denise Digby. I am a bard—of sorts."

"Ladies cannot be bards."

"Well, I did say I am a bard _of sorts_," I smiled. "And just because it is uncommon does not make it impossible."

"I suppose," she shrugged with mild disapproval.

Belle continued to study me as if she was determining whether I was a possible rescuer or another threat to her frail existence. The graveness of her features clashed with her young age and the epithet 'wilful' entered my head. I fear that I easily label people in such a manner since the characters of my usual stories have to be simplified to appeal to the easily distracted tavern audiences.

I can tell you now that Isabella is a very pretty child, even though this look of sulking defiance did not become her. Some of her features I could recognise from her father. The jaw and her mouth was his, perhaps even the general shape of her eyes, even though I soon realized that they were bluer with uncommonly big pupils. Other things, like the delicate frown in her forehead, the soft brown curls and her nose must have been inherited from someone else. Because this was the closest I would ever come to seeing Robin's ghost I found myself cutting Isabella's face into pieces, throwing away the ones I recognised and reassembling those I didn't, until I had a collage which might or might not resemble Lady Marian. If you have seen her then perhaps you may tell me if I am right? Did she have brown hair and a button-nose? Were her eyes blue and her face round? An outline - that is all I will ever have of her. Lady Marian is a shadow and there are far too many gaps for me to truly see her before me, yet she was all around me wherever I went during this one year.

These were the thoughts which claimed my curious mind, and when Belle spoke again her words took me completely by surprise.

"Did my daddy send you?" she asked severely. I flinched and stared far too long at the child's sombre face, unable to find a suitable response.

"You know your father?" I threw back another question in lack of better response, and she nodded. Then something dawned on me which I think I am still the only one to know. See it as a privilege that I choose to share it with you, because I promised to keep it a secret. "You know _of_ your father," I said softly. "You told someone about him, didn't you? Do not worry - I will not be angry with you."

Isabella hesitated a while before she nodded again.

"The other children teased you?" I guessed, and was rewarded with another nod. "They called you names so you told them who your father was."

Isabella looked regretful and shrugged uneasily. "It was a secret," she murmured with another frown. "But they were mean."

"Don't worry," I whispered and lowered my face so close to her that I could feel her radiating body heat. "I will not tell anyone. It will be our secret."

I think this was the exact moment that Isabella decided that she liked me, and because she is a child this feeling was unreserved and her trust in me complete. As I started to clumsily pick the lock, obviously hurting her already chafed skin in the process, she sat valiantly riding it out and refused to show any weakness. I remember feeling embarrassed over how badly I was finishing my chore and getting increasingly frustrated with the impossible lock, but every time I met Belle's eyes she had that same look of utter focus. She certainly didn't seem scared, but I know that I was. We heard the guards change outside the door and whenever I lifted my arms there was a sharp pong of sweat coming from my armpits. I trembled and my breathing became increasingly ragged as the stress increased.

"So," I tried nervously to talk my fear away. "Was it your mother who told you about your father? Have you met her? Lady Marian I mean."

The chains moved as Belle put up a couple of fingers and I almost slipped with the lock-pick. By now the metal smelled of iron and was oily from my sweaty hands, so I took a firmer grip and tried again. "Two times?" I responded to my own question. "Three?" Isabella shrugged, then nodded, still completely focused on how my work with the lock progressed.

I still recall in perfect clarity how my heart almost stopped at the next change of guards. They remained outside the door for a while and we could hear them speak with edgy voices. Then the door to the room was opened. I was so startled by the creaking of the door that the lock-pick escaped my grip, falling down on the floor with a clang. For a moment I wondered whether to pick it up or pretend nothing happened, but soon found that my body had frozen. Instead of bending down I shifted my knee so that the dress draped over the piece of metal, and started to massage Isabella's wrists. I could feel the presence of another person in the room but never turned around, merely noted the sound of leather as the newcomer moved into the middle of the space. For a while he hovered over us like that, casting an intimidating shadow on the wall before me, and I could see by the look on Belle's face that this was a person she had no warm feelings towards. Then the sound of leather creaking started anew and the man disappeared again, closing the door behind him. I bent down to pick up the lock-pick and took a trembling breath to strengthen myself.

"Who was that?" I asked winded.

"Guy," Belle scoffed. "He comes sometimes and looks at me. I don't like him."

"Sir Guy!" I burst out. "How did he look? Was he angry?"

"Like the same old sourpuss," Isabella shrugged. "Can't you get the lock up?"

I flinched and forced a smile, starting to work on the lock anew. "Of course I can," I reassured her and ignored the doubt which kept tugging on my mind. "It just takes time."

It took two more guard changes, then the lock suddenly said click and one of the fetters fell off, leaving a sore, red stripe behind on Belle's skin. After that it only took one more guard-change to get the second fetter done, undoubtedly because the success of the first one did wonders for my confidence. When I was done I sat up in the bed and pulled Isabella towards me, cradling the child who still refused to show any fear.

I do not know how much time went by before Robin and Little John showed up at the door. To me it felt like an eternity but Belle claims it was no time at all. I told her stories and sang her songs in a mellow voice, whispering the low notes and lingering on the high ones so that they trembled softly. Because I expected Robin to come bursting in, I was surprised at how gentle the rescue eventually ensued. There were some muffled thuds followed by the rustling of keys in a lock, and then the door was pushed open so silently that the hinges only made a faint creek. In the dark I thought Robin's eyes looked unnaturally white and shining but they weren't aimed at me. When Isabella moved his eyes followed her every change, glued to the child as if enchanted. I remember feeling a pang if jealousy, not at Isabella, but at her mother who Robin must have seen in the child. Like me he was picking her apart feature by feature, but unlike me he knew what to look for.

The spell was broken by Little John who gave Robin a light shuffle to wake him up. He came alive as quickly as fire flares up from peat and ordered Isabella to jump up on John's back. We then formed a troop around her, with John's massive build in front and me and Robin at the back. As we left the room I felt Robin's hand enclose around my arm and he tugged me closer until his lips grazed my ear and I could feel his breath warm and damp against my skin. Every muscle in my body froze and I held by breath, fighting the feeling of falling right through the floor.

"Well done, Denise," he whispered so that a shiver of pleasure rippled through my body. "You did well."

"Where," I swallowed, "Where—where is Allan and—and Much?"

"Creating a distraction," Robin murmured and tugged my arm, starting to stalk cautiously after Little John down the corridor. "Come-on, this way."

Looking at the events of this day in the rear-view mirror, I can safely say that our first mistake was becoming too cocky. Since we had hurried along a while without any disturbance John put down Isabella as soon as we reached the servant quarters of the castle. They were usually safe and the girl did not like to be carried when she had two legs of her own. When she started to skip ahead Robin became instantly alarmed. He tensed but remained smiling, whispering at her to calm down as he followed. Because Robin was the leader and had to make sure that we all kept together, I was the one who trotted away after Belle, with Robin close behind and John lagging slightly.

"Belle!" I called out in a hushed voice. "Slow down, slow down!" Yet the child had no plans on slowing down. When I upped my pace so did she, making the escape into a game of tag. I remember grabbing hold of her dress, but as she gave out a sharp laugh I was startled and my grip around the cloth slipped. She disappeared behind a corner and I rushed after. After a while there was no use in trying to be silent because Isabella was giggling loudly, her chirping laugh bounced from wall to wall and multiplied. This was a side of her which had been kept back by the shackles, but even though her parents were considered heroes, Belle was just a child. She liked to play. I think our second mistake might have been to give in to her childish pranks rather than putting up a hard front from the start, but by then it was too late to regret. She disappeared behind a corner again and I followed blindly.

If Robin had not reacted for me then I would not be here to tell this story. I had taken two steps into the room when he pulled me back, his arm against my chest and his chin on my shoulder as I tumbled against him. I do not know if it is a figure of my imagination or if I actually felt the wind from the crossbow arrow. Much later, when we were back at camp, I scanned my dress for any rips, but to my great surprise found none. Thus the arrow cannot have been as close as I imagined, but it still caused me to give out a yelp of surprise.

Robin pulled me in behind the door and pressed me rather harshly against the wall, his body tense and his eyes wide in horror.

"No one dies today," he hissed. "Not again!"

Then the pressure was released and Robin moved to the doorway. I felt dizzy and out of breath, so it took some time before the situation dawned on me. Isabella! She had run into that room! My eyes widened in horror and I turned to Robin whose face was fixed on something in the room. He had his bow in his hand but it wasn't drawn.

"Let her go," he sneered. "You are alone, sheriff. If you hurt her, I kill you, we both know that."

I felt myself tense at the mentioning of the sheriff and moved to stand slightly behind Robin. I had expected him to pull me back again but he didn't even seem to notice me.

Sheriff Vaisey stood in the middle of the room with Isabella in his arms. The crossbow he had released me was replaced by a sword, resting menacingly against the child's small frame, but as Robin said, he was alone.

"If you kill me then Nottingham is doomed, Hood," the sheriff said and rotated the blade a bit to let the metal catch the reflexes from the window.

"That is a risk I am willing to take," Robin responded calmly. "I do not believe the prince to be a fool but to waste his army of internal revenge is no doubt foolish."

"Ah, but will you sacrifice your daughter just as easily, hm? A clue --"

There was a twang and the sheriff's words stopped in the middle of a breath. In spite of myself I shouted out and put up my hands over my eyes, hearing the second and third twang go off, and then a soft thud as a body hit the floor. It all happened so fast that I didn't understand what had occurred until I saw the softly trembling string of Robin's bow, and his quiver which somehow seemed lighter. Later I would learn that the first arrow hit the sheriff in his throat, killing him instantly, while the two later ones were planted square in his eyes. It has come to my mind in my darkest moments that the deed of blinding the sheriff after death was almost ritualistic, the symbolic actions of a madman, but perhaps a father should not be sane if his child is in danger.

As soon as the arrows were released I heard the rapid tapping of feet and felt a gust of wind as Isabella ran away from the neutralized threat and right into Robin's arms. By the time the worst of my shock had dulled off Robin had pulled Belle away from the gruesome scene and kneeled down to form a little fortress around her with his own body. I felt sick as I saw the blood spatter on the child's cheek and turned away, folding my stomach over my arms as I fought the nausea. Once I gradually regained some of my balance and didn't choke on every breath I slowly unfolded and started to turn to the room.

"Don't look." I flinched and turned to Robin who had stood up with Belle still in his arms. He shook is head and looked at me gravely. "It won't make you stronger – trust me," he continued. "We need to leave. Now. This way." He made a motion with his head and I only hesitated for a moment before I decided that he was right. To this day I have never regretted simply turning my back on the corpse of Sheriff Vaisey, in spite of being a collector of stories and thus a witness of all things. There is only so long a bard is willing to go for her art, and that would have been much too far.

* * *

**_A/N:_ Thank you for the comments.**

**Not-being-sarcy: lol, actually Robin is a bit full of himself as well, so him and Denise are well-matched there lol. I think oc's have to be flawed to be interesting. Same goes for the real characters of the show. **

**Poppycat: I think I responded to you alreday i a mail, but it can be said again. I won't bring Marian back in this fic. The idea isn't stupid, it just deoesn't suit this particular artistic vision of mine. ;) It is the only multi-chapter non-Marian fic I will ever write  
**


	7. Chapter Six

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter Six**

This would be my ending if I had a choice.

The evening was so mellow and warm, the breeze so gentle, and Robin's smile had never been more open. For hours we had been sitting on the platform the outlaws rather optimistically called 'kitchen', sharing lukewarm ale and laughing at the memories of the evening. Belle had fallen asleep in Robin's bunk and I still had the vision of the child's small head beneath his palm as he gently stoked her eyes until she slid into a dreamless slumber. He was so touched by the miracle of his daughter that he seemed awestruck. Even as the evening lingered on his smile refused to be cowed, his eyes sparkled and had a slightly dazed expression, as if he couldn't believe his luck. We didn't mention the sheriff's death, because in the air of triumph after Belle's rescue the world was right again, and we all played along with Robin's enthusiasm.

Robin knew by then that Marian had been to see their daughter, not often but a couple of times. He knew that the child knew that he was her father, although Belle had kept it secret that she was the one who leaked this fact to the public. Belle's substitute family had been loving, a big and rowdy household conducted by Thornton's eldest daughter Rose. There was no way that Isabella could return to them now, but if the loss of this stability and love hurt her, then she didn't show it. The girl was like a dandelion in that she seemed to survive any trauma seemingly unscathed, and she kept her head high in a stubborn pride which troubled me but seemed to please Robin.

At some point during this first evening I had stumbled over to sit by the outlaw leader, gaining some garbled words from Allan about not holding my liquor very well as I clumsily wandered across the camp. The scorn didn't matter to me since Robin never had been this warm and attentive towards me as he was now. At some point we decided to take a walk through the forest, and ended up stopping by a forest pond which was dark like the beady eye of an animal. Robin had brought two cups and a flask of ale, and as we sat down he filled them both in one smooth movement.

"For a job well done," he said softly for my ears alone and our jugs bumped together with the hollow sound of wood upon wood. I kept my eyes on him as he took a swig of the bitter beverage, watched the tiny wrinkles around his eyes and the way the corners of his mouth twitched. When he had swallowed he leaned back against a tree and aimed his eyes at the darkening sky. "She has dimples," he smiled dreamingly. "She got them from Marian."

"Marian had dimples?" I asked as my mind was torn between jealousy and curiosity. It only took a moment for the curiosity to win the first round. "What else does she have from her?" I asked.

"The hair," Robin smiled. "Her expressions – the frown, the rolling eyes--" His voice trailed off into never-never land and he took another sip of ale.

Perhaps it was the ale which made my hand rest boldly upon his, and perhaps it was the night which dazed my look and lowered my voice into a seductive whisper as I finally asked the questions of my heart. "Was she much more beautiful than me?" I said softly and stroked Robin's arm. He flinched, for a moment startled by my honesty, but then shook his head.

"You have a different kind of beauty," he answered "You are fair, she is dark, you are tall and slender she is curvy and small."

"I am alive she is dead," I stated, and the mood between us changed in a heartbeat. At first he seemed angry, but then the tension somehow morphed into attraction. I suppose we could blame the ale, the victory or the night for that as well, but even though Robin seemed sad, there was a definite wish in him to change status quo. He too had been living in the shadow of a ghost, he too was lonely and cold. "It is time to let her go," I whispered and pushed my lips to his, softly like the mere brush of a feather.

"I know," he responded demurely without commenting on my advance. "For Isabella, if nothing else."

"For yourself," I breathed, and silently added 'for me and for us' to myself. "Belle sleeps in your bunk - share mine tonight." Robin nodded, then suddenly leaned towards me to push back in another soft kiss, gently probing this strange new territory. As the moment lingered on he kissed me deeper, tore the ground from me feet and woke a swarm of butterflies in my body. By then no reason in this world could possibly have come between myself and what I craved, so I shushed the faint warning from the back of my head and wiped my mind clean in favour for the taste of Robin's kiss.

I have often wondered if Robin truly believed his own words that first night or just wished to believe them. Because our intimacy dulled the voices in his head he must have thought time would extinguish them altogether. Yet I do not think he was ever prepared to let the ghost of Marian go. In accepting the loss he would loose her all over again, so he clung to the memories and every painful feeling like a castaway. Robin was a man in love but for him that love was a lonely place - vast and barren with no solace in sight. I was his refuge in this solitary life, and because of that my love condemned me to loneliness as well. He was never wholly mine and never completely there. This is why I would have liked to end my story here, when our budding relationship was perfect. Yet I am a storyteller and the story is not over. I beg of you, if you wish for a romantic ever after, then leave us here. We were so happy, the future brimming with hope and possibilities, the night so wondrous and warm.

So here it is, in the middle of my story, in the middle of my chapter, in the middle of my life; and then they lived happily ever after.

Now let us once and for all leave this night behind and continue what actually happened thereafter, because the story is a good one and begs to be told.

I know now, with the wisdom of time, that I couldn't truly compete with Marian, but back then both Robin and I still had hope. Once the first step was taken towards a romantic relationship we struggled to make our family work. Robin is a person who thrives on the moment - who can take one victory and let it swallow all his doubt and fears, let it burn so brightly that the hope it spurs on envelopes everything, but sadly this feeling does not last. It has a 'best before'-date after which it becomes dull and bland before it dies down completely.

I can pinpoint the exact moment that I started to notice the change. We were walking through the forest, my hand in Robin's and Belle running ahead. We did not talk much but Robin smiled, I remember that, and the day was wonderful.

"Daddy," Belle called out and laughed when we couldn't see her. "I'm up here!"

I turned my head to a tree where Belle saw straddling a big bough, her little legs dangling and the dress crumpled up so that you could see the moss-green trousers beneath. He face was beaming with joy and the chestnut hair draped down to frame the pretty face. The sight made me smile but Robin's reaction was quite different. He let go of my hand and when I turned to him in confusion he looked lost, as if he didn't know what he was doing here. I knew that look from the mornings, but had explained it away as him not being much of a morning person.

"Robin?" I asked. "What is wrong Robin? She won't fall – the child climbs better than you do."

"I know," Robin responded with a strained smile. "I just remembered something. I need to go back to the camp."

I frowned at his obvious discomfort and cautiously placed a hand on his arm. "We will come with you," I said.

"No, please," he smiled and backed away form my touch, softly as to not make it too obvious. "It is a wonderful day, please stay. Belle is having fun, I don't want to spoil it for her."

"But what is so important--"

"Nothing!" he took a trembling breath and calmed down when he saw how scared his sudden burst of anger made me. Isabelle slid down from the branch and want up to us, grabbing our hands in hers.

"I want to go back too," she stated. "Can you swing me? Please daddy?"

Our uncomfortable gaze softened as we turned out faces to the child instead of each other. Robin nodded and started to walk, then at some subconscious cue we both swung our arms so that Belle was slung into the sky, one hand in mine and the other in Robin's as we ran a couple of steps to keep up with the flying child. She laughed when her feet left the ground and continued to laugh when she landed again, the unabridged giggling of a child. It took away the tension from the moment before but I could still feel a lingering sadness radiating from Robin. I think, even though I didn't know it back then, that it was that day he gave up on us. I suspect the hope he had of forgetting Marian and moving on died away with a memory more intensely emotional than anything I could ever wake in him. We had many happy days after that as well, but none that came with the optimism for the future that Robin had for us in the aftermath of Belle's rescue.

In the weeks that followed I remember watching in silent desperation as Robin put a distance between us. He wasn't mean or unloving, but his kisses and touched were sometimes absentminded and depraved of the passion he once showed me. It seemed cruel to me that he would tire so fast, but as I look back on it I think perhaps the initial passion was more about his eagerness to move on than anything else. I know he cared for me, was drawn to me, perhaps even loved me. He just didn't love me as much as he craved and adored the ghost of Marian.

I am not the kind of person who confronts people head on. Instead I am subtle and cautious as I tip-toe towards my target, fighting my battles soft but unrelenting. When it became apparent to me that Robin had changed I didn't scream and throw things around the room, or beg him to talk things trough. Instead I choose my final attempt to win him back to be a whispering declaration of love. It was afternoon and he was standing at the end of the camp, watching as the shadows of the forest grew longer. I walked up to him and placed my arms around his waist, resting my body against his back and savouring the sensation of his body heat beneath the cloth. He stroked by arm and leaned back slightly, a gesture so inviting that it gave me courage, even though my voice still trembled as I spoke.

"I love you, Robin," I murmured into the moss green wool of his hood, "you complete me," As I felt him tense at my words my heart sunk. A couple of moments passed before he turned around, placed an arm around my shoulders and planted a dry kiss on my temple.

"You are already complete," he responded in a rejection disguised as a compliment.

When I started to cry he held me silently and I think I heard him whisper 'I'm sorry', though that might only be wishful thinking. We never spoke of it again and fell into a new routine, when we both pretended that everything was fine because it was easier that way.

I could tell you a hundred storied from the months that followed, but I do think it would bore you. We had good moments, like the time we woke up to a pale blue dawn and sneaked out to bathe naked to the rising sun – splashing water and laughing like children. Then we had terrible times, deprived of all joy and pride. It hurts too much to talk about but perhaps you have all been to that place where you are willing to go any distance, to beg a person to love you and hate him when he cannot. I remember pressing my head to his shoulder in the dark of our shared bunk and whispering into his ear '…_you can pretend that I am her, I do not mind_', even though I did mind. I loved him enough to settle for snippets of his affection when I failed to own his heart, but I loathed myself for it.

Forgive me - I fear I am wallowing in old pain again. In truth I do think the good moments outnumbered the bad. In a way we were a family. We had fun and were warm and caring towards each other, which is more than can be said about many families. It didn't involve just me and Robin, but Isabella and the outlaws as well. In the days the lonely despair of the nights was usually far away, and I thrived in harmonic co-existence with the ghost.

It was winter when things started to change to the worse, but then it didn't directly concern my and Robin's relationship. Word went around that Sir Guy of Gisbourne had finally been able to regain the strength which had been lost by the sheriff's death. It had been a hard blow for him that Vaisey's murder didn't focus Prince John's forces on Nottingham's enemies. I suppose I should have told you this before? The ridiculous idea that Nottingham would be razed if anything happened to the sheriff had been nothing but a smoke screen. The prince needed Vaisey, so he made an empty promise which was too dangerous for Robin to dare challenge, but when it came down to it he didn't feel like wasting his resources on revenge. When the sheriff did die, all the prince did was take direct command of the black knights and leave Guy to be sheriff of Nottingham. So far the gloomy nobleman had not done a very impressive job. The black knights didn't listen to Vaisey's bullied underdog so he took out his frustrations on the neighbourhood instead, in this case the entire shire. Most of our work was aimed at feeding the poor in their Guy-induced state of misery, and thus the bigger picture, which is what Robin called it, had been somewhat lost. This didn't change until a cold January.

The outlaws were in plain sight when they came back from Nottingham, moving edgily through the barren winter landscape where frost coated the rug of leaves and air turned into mist when you exhaled. I was in the process of answering one of Belle's many unanswerable questions, in this case why winter air turned into mist when you breathed while summer air didn't, by making up a story involving fairies and stolen treasures. The look of the approaching outlaws worried me, since I could see that something was wrong long before they reached us.

"Robin?" I asked anxiously as I jogged down to meat them. "What is the matter?"

Robin placed a palm on my shoulder and slowed down, lowering his voice so that Belle didn't overhear the conversation. "Guy is gathering his forces. He is recruiting and making alliances."

"But isn't Gisbourne always up to something?" I frowned. Just like a carpenter's wife will be a better carpenter than the woman next door, but not good enough to be a craftsman herself, I was somewhat cut off from the outlaws actual work and thus left slightly in the blind.

"Yes, but this isn't something," Robin sighed and chewed his lip nervously. "This is _it_. He is taking over from where Vaisey was interrupted."

"By your arrow," I smiled encouraging, "as Guy can be interrupted by your arrow as well."

"We will have to change tactics," Robin responded, seemingly untouched by my belief in his almost superhuman ability to fix things solitarily. "We cannot do this on our own. The peasants will have to be our army because the nobles are too scared of their own precious skin to dare take up arms. If this thing explodes then we will have to be ready."

"Explodes?" I asked worriedly.

Robin nodded. "If the king comes," he explained. "I suspect the sheriff and Prince John always wished the battle to stand here. If Gisbourne has regained status in the eyes of the royal usurper then it is because the prince wants Nottingham, not because he trusts in Guy."

"You are sure of that?" I asked rather sceptically. It seemed far fetched to me, more like speculations than anything, but Robin merely nodded gravely and started to walk swiftly towards the camp, urging me to follow him.

Because I stand before you now with the key in my hand, I can tell you that he was right. Prince John did indeed intend Nottingham to play a part when the king came back, and the next couple of months Robin was completely swamped in work. Silently he assembled an army of rebels, rearmed and trained it to enable a rapid accumulation of the forces when the time was right. It mainly seemed to be a matter of rousing speeches and sharing his passion for fairness and benevolence amongst the crestfallen masses, but it worked. During these months Robin burned, became the fighter I loved rather than the simple man I truly needed. As brothers in arms we were perfect but as lovers we left much to be wished for, and because Robin the hero needed Marian to fight there were days when our relationship was platonic. We never broke up but occasionally he would forget about us. Then at other times we were better than ever, because when his crisis was deep and his longing for Marian an aching despair, then I was the one who kept him grounded.

Yet in spite of my soothing influence, the one person who could make Robin completely relaxed was Isabella. When he played the role of the loving father he gave it everything, his entire heart, and every stray thought about king and country was shushed and dismissed. Because I loved her too I never aimed my jealousy at her, but there were times when I felt annoyed with her mother, who refused to leave us alone even in death.

Thus passed the final months, and as nature woke to another green season the saga about Robin Hood was finally moving into autumn. It was coming to an end and we all knew it, mentally prepared for the grand finale. While Robin and I were aimed solely at the battle the other outlaws had focused on what would follow. Peace. Plenty of food. A warm home. Women, wine - and above all, a well-earned retirement from poorly paid, lawless charity-work in the forest.

* * *

**_A/N:_ A lot of people seem to find this chapter very sad, but the Denise/Robin love story was never set up to be a very happy one. **

**_Ese:_ I haven't forgotten Crossroads, I just had a lot of problems with chapter 27 (which is up now-- finally!)  
_Sarcy: _ty for the comment  
_Andie:_ English is my second language and I don't have a beta for this fic. I don't mind if people point out mistakes (as long as they don't point out every mistake or are downright rude), but you can't expect my language or grammar to be perfect. Anyway, you ponted out some typo's and poor word-choices. Usually a beta would have spotted it before I updated, I hope it didn't interefere too much with heh enjoyment of the chapter ;) Ty you so much for the long comment. I absolutley loved having Robin kill the sheriff like that btw, just b/c it was so sudden and his reason was a primal love for his child, which didn't listen to reason. (I have a thing for fathers, I think it is the combination of maleness and softness which gets to me ;))**

**xxxTrixxx**


	8. Chapter Seven

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter Seven**

We are back where we started.

When I wake up the final day of my life as Robin Hood's last lover I dress as I always do. I help Much with the chores and take care of Bella's morning grooming – everything except the combing of her long, chestnut curls. I do not expect Robin to return so soon, so when he does we all turn to his grim face in surprise which swiftly turns into apprehension. His movements as he takes a turn around the room are fast and snappy and there is that focused energy to him again. He straps on his belt and we all wait.

"The king is coming," he states. "Now. Whatever happens-- happens today. Denise, you need to take Isabella to the secure place. Return or stay behind, it is your choice."

"My choice?" I ask puzzled, since he is usually so protective that he leaves me none.

"Everything is a choice," he murmurs to himself. Then he stops for a while and looks at Bella who has been pulled into the grim atmosphere and sits perfectly still with a slight frown in her pretty face. Robin's features melt into a small but warm smile and he walks softly over the floor, kneeling by his daughter and placing a hand on her head. "You need to be strong, my love," he whispers, and she nods demurely, putting her arms around his neck. His chin rests against her shoulder and for a while they stand locked into their tender embrace, spurred on by a love as old as life itself, before he pulls away from the reluctant child and gestures for me to take care of her. When I leave with Isabella's warm hand in mine I hear Robin call out orders to his men. Rally the troops. Warn the people. At arms, at arms! _Deus vult_ - God wills it.

If there is a man in this world who God will follow, then I am sure that Robin is that man. I am not afraid and I do not stay behind. Once Bella is safe I return to Locksley where the tattered army of peasants has gathered on the common land, armed with forks or old swords and the occasional longbow. Robin meets my eye briefly and nods at me with a small smile, but he is so caught up in the preparations that I have never seen him more distant yet brimming with life. When it is time, we march towards Nottingham and the final stand of Guy of Gisbourne and John the Landless. We used to be the rebellion but now we side with the king, and we are all proud because Robin has told us that we should be. He has that effect on people. We sing a song I wrote for the occasion and my clear voice merges with Much's complete tone-deafness. He tends to sing in a high key which wavers and breaks, but he does it with such joy that I cannot help loving him for it. Allan is considerably less charmed.

"Shut up!" he sneers irritably. "My head will split and it won't even take a sword, you idiot."

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" Much smiles in response, suddenly maudlin in the face if the looming danger. "I do. You don't deserve it, but I do."

"Shut up," Allan murmurs again, but there is a faint trace of a smile in his face. "I 'ave gotten pretty used to you too, mind you," he continues in something which is hardly more than a angry whisper.

"Aha!" Much smiles. "I though you did. Ha! Looks like I got to you after all."

"Well, it wasn't your bloody cooking."

I laugh before I venture into the next verse of my song – the one which only I know the lyrics to, and they all fall silent to listen. My voice has a magic of its own.

"I love you too, John," Much continues tearfully as I send the last tone of the verse trembling into the sky. "And you Denise, you have the voice of an angel. And Robin--"

"I know, I know," Robin calls out and half-turns to face Much. "I love you too, my friend."

"We all do," I add fondly.

"Even though you're a pain in the rear-end more often than not," Allan grunts, just to cut Much down a little bit. He wouldn't like him to get too smug I suppose.

When Nottingham appears before us we are silent and in the silence I let my eyes wander over the peasants. How many of these men will die today? Hundreds of stories coming to an end, dreams cut off by the edge of a sword and families cracked and shattered. Still they are proud, determined not to be afraid because if they admit the fear their legs would refuse to carry them. I know how they feel because I feel it too. My slender hands tremble as I venture down my Golgotha; pass the hanged man's hill where some corpses still dangle in nooses like macabre adornments, showing the way into the city. _Come here_, their grinning mouths call out, _stay here forever_.

The king's armies are waiting for us and we attack side by side with the army of worn-out crusaders. They look so foreign to me that it is a mystery how Robin could have been one of them once. He rides with the king for a while, but when we enter the city he moves back to his men with a reassuring smile. _Everything will be fine – the king is here._ I am not sure that they believe him, but they want to, so they all pretend that they do.

When the battle starts everything becomes a blur. I am so used to telling stories that my senses are sharpened at all times, but now all I experience is the roar. I feel out of place. Someone shuffles me, another calls out for me to hide, to flee. I am a woman and a bard and I cannot wield a sword, but my heart wishes to help. For a moment a guard stands turned with his back towards me and I lift the dagger in my hand. _Easy,_ I think, so easy to kill him, so easy to play my part and be a soldier. But then he turns and I sand face to face with a young man's haunted eyes. He is pale with fear and he got tiny scars on his cheeks from poor shaving. This morning he woke up and they told him this is it. They told him that the final battle was coming and he had to be prepared. His hands shivered when he shaved and he felt sick. As my mind tells me his story I lower the dagger and he disappears in the masses of soldiers and famers, a tiny boat overtaken by the storming ocean.

I am not a soldier. I cannot kill. I can only tell the story. I feel the smell of blood and the heat of too many people squeezed into such a small place. There is a building burning and the fumes cloud the sky. The sound of the battle is deafening. Metal clings together, people scream in anger, or pain, or fear, or just to strengthen themselves for the next blow. I move to the far end of the scene and the heavy smell of human bodies makes me feel queasy.

I remember thinking that the battle went on forever, but when I try to recall these hours of painful waiting they melt together. My memories only amount to a moment. I walk over to a building where my view is better and search for my friends. Are we winning? Loosing? I am useless where I stand and I cannot tell the enemies from my friends. When at last I see the king the day has grown late and the battles are tired and slow. For some time I stare at the group of nobles, the heart of the battle, and then for some reason I let my eyes dart up towards the battlements above. This is when my heart freezes and the howling of a thousand stories begging to be told are quenched by a single one: Robin's story. I can see him up there, moving his agile body towards a dark figure which I recognize as Guy of Gisbourne. I suppose the battle lingers on but I only have eyes for the two shapes on the battlements.

Robin's attack is fierce. He wields his sword and takes a leap towards Gisbourne. Their blades meet and they move away, then attacks again. My head is scrambling for the full story so I notice the details. Gisbourne's crossbow, the king, standing below them in ignorance of what is occurring over his head, the determination in Robin's attack – the plan must have been to assassinate the king, I muse. Gisbourne went up there to finish the battle alone and Robin followed to stop him. As I consider this, both the fighting men loose their footing slightly and my breath catches in my throat. In order to maintain balance they drop the swords, and as the blades tumble down they stand face to face, weighing each other while Robin carefully takes the Saracen bow in his hand. Guy takes the opportunity to lash out at him. The dagger in his hand snaps the bowstring off and Robin has only a piece of wood to defend himself. He backs away and stumbles over a stone.

I shut my eyes. I dare not breathe, my yell is a strangled sob and I have to lean against the wall to regain my balance. When I open my eyes anew Robin hangs with his hands clinging to the wall and his legs scrambling to get a grip. He watches, as do I, how Guy moves slowly to the far end of the wall and crouches down to draw the crossbow and aim it at the king. Robin's posture changes, his arms gain new strength and he heaves himself up - ungracefully but effectively – on the battlements.

Then we hear him scream. It is a primal roar, a battle cry as old as time, it is all his love all his hate rolled into a single name and it sounds eerie and superhuman. 'Marian' he screams, but the cry lingers on and on while he runs towards the man in black, as the letters reverberates in every part of his body. He screams and for a brief moment the battle stops by the power of his voice alone. Then the outline of his body slams into Gisbourne and slowly, like something incredibly heavy tipping over, they slide over the edge. When they fall they look like ragdolls, falling gingerly through the sky. There is no more shouting and from my distance the two bodies hits the ground without a sound. Experience tells me that the fall must have crushed them, but it looks so soft. Around me the battle has started all over again, but now the power balance has changed. Without their leader Gisbourne's men do not know if they wish to continue. They fall back, hesitate, and fail because their opponents seize this chance to destroy them. The sound of metal against flesh disgusts me, but I run right through the heart of the battle to get to my beloved. He who yelled his heart's true conviction as a final call for arms, fervently like he has never spoken my name and now I fear he never will.

There is blood when I reach the first body, dark and thick on one side of Gisbourne's unmoving limbs and watery pale on the other. All this blood is his, but it seems impossible that there can be so much of it in such a coldblooded man. His eyes stare unseeing into the sky and his jaw has fallen open in the pale face. Perhaps because his eyes scare me or perhaps because he, like me, has been the one who always loved someone more, I reach down to shut his eyes and murmur some Latin phrases. Then I move on, silently now, to the second body.

There is a muffled moan when I reach Robin and my heart makes a leap. When I bend down and put my hand on his chest it feels oddly soft, as if something inside has deflated, and his breathing is strained and wheezing. Yet the heart beneath my palm still beats and when I call his name his eyes flutter open to look at me.

"Marian?" he says, and I shake my head vehemently, cursing the tears which burn my eyes. Does he not even know me? "Denise," he then murmurs softly.

"Ay, it's me," I respond in a voice which is thick with tears.

"It is over," he breathes, and I nod, stroking some stands of hair from his forehead. "Good," he continues. "It's good."

"Gisbourne is dead," I assure him, just to say something, and a small smile grazes his lips. He looks so tired that I keep expecting his heart to stop beating beneath my palm, but he still clings to life. Then I realize that he is waiting. He waits for Much and the rest of his lads because he wants to say farewell.

"Good," he says again. "You will be fine, my love." He takes another wheezing breath and for a moment there is something like regret in his eyes. "Isabella," he murmurs the name of his daughter. "You must care for her, Denise. Promise you will care for her."

I nod because my voice keeps failing me. In the distance I hear the battle is over and people start to gather around us, a circle of observers who shuts out the light.

"You are her mother now," Robin whispers. "She loves you, as do I."

"Do you?" my voice trembles and breaks. "Do you love me really?"

"Of course I do," he smiles faintly. "You were my harbour when I thought I would drown."

I feel something warm on my hand and look up to see Much by my side. I think it is strange that he is so silent. He doesn't scream in agony, doesn't panic and yell for a physician, but merely watches his friend on the ground. Robin smiles at him.

"I am broken, Much," Robin says softly. "Turns out I couldn't fly after all."

"I could have told you that," Much responds. "Not that you would have listened."

"You have been my most loyal friend."

"Yes well, it's a tough job but someone has got to do it." Much smiles sadly and Robin's body shakes in something between a cough and laughter.

"Thank you," he breathes. "My friend. All of you." There is a twinkle in his eye and a dazed smile grazes his lips as he stares into the air, seeing something that we cannot. Somehow I know that it is _Her_ again, and that he is ready to leave us. I choke back a sob and sit up straighter, staring at that spot which he watches so fervently. Yet I see nothing. His harbour, he said I was, but she was the sea and the sky. The loss of her was always there, even as he slept by my side. When he said 'I love you' he was honest, even if he loved her more. I take comfort in that as his chest heaves into a final breath and life escapes him in a sigh, leaving behind a face frozen into a secret smile.

"But you still followed the Sirens song," I whisper. "I could not stop you from that."

"What?" Much sniffles by my side. He is shaking and cries softly with such ease that I envy him. He who always used to say that he would die if Robin did now seems to take his death surpsiringly well. He is grieving but his soul isn't shattered, and no one seems more surprised by this than he. "What song?"

"The sirens." I look up to see Allan-A-Dale by my side, and am surprised that he knows this. "Look, it's like something tempting but dangerous, right?" He bends down by my side and gives me a comforting smile before he grabs Robin's dead body around the shoulder and squeezes it tenderly. "Bye, mate," he murmurs. "Do me a favour and put in a good word for me up there? Not being funny but I think I'll need it."

Little John's shadow falls over us and then we are all finally gathered. I expect the big man to say something in the line of 'him, we liked', but instead he merely murmurs 'Goodbye lad. Tell the lass I said hello'. It is like we all expected this, as if there was no other possible ending to this legend. My mind feels numb but determined as I reach up my hand and little John helps me up, and then I walk through the crowd until I reach a small platform. I am used to standing in front of an audience but these people are different. I don't have to get their attention because I already have it, just by being who I am – Robin Hood's woman.

"Robin Hood is dead," I call out in a clear, strong voice which no longer breaks or trembles. "Now we must be Robin Hood!" They all look at me in silence, so I take a deep breath and screams again, raising my fist into the sky. "Robin Hood is dead – We are Robin Hood!" This time some people repeat the phrase, so I continue. I scream and scream until the words roll from every tongue in Nottingham, a giant choir of people who roar out a tribute to their very own hero. It is then that I decide how it will have to be. This country will forever remember Robin Hood because I will tell his tale time and again to everyone who stops long enough to listen. His memory will set new souls aflame, and I will be the one to spread the fire.

**_A/N_: Thank you all for the comments, and excuse me for keeping this n/n so short. I'm sitting by a greasy public computer lol.**

**There is just one chapter left on this story now :)  
**

**xxxTrixxx  
**


	9. Chapter eight

_**The Last Song of the Sirens**_

**Chapter Eight**

She can be such a solemn child.

When Belle stands by my side in front of her father's grave it's with an expression of someone much older. She has her hand in mine and some squashed wild-flowers in the other, but she holds me as if to give strength rather than to draw it from me. It doesn't matter that I am a grown-up. She is like her parents and they both found it easier to help people than to demand help themselves. I think it's both a flaw and a virtue.

I am dressed in boy's clothes and my lute is slung across my shoulder. My blond hair is cut beneath my jaw so that I look like a hard and gangly young man where I stand in the gentle breeze of Locksley cemetery. I'm so tall and flat that I can pull this off, and Bella has already accepted me as her brother 'David'. She is in on the scam, but while I thought she would look upon it as a game her approach is much more serious than that.

I squeeze her hand and look down into the big eyes which are a bit damp from unreleased tears. I wish she would let them out but know that she needs privacy to do that.

"Have you said your farewell to uncle Much?" I ask her with a soft smile and she shakes her head silently. Then she puts down the wild-flowers gingerly, dividing the bouquet into two equal shares and places one bundle on her father's grave and the other on her mother's memorial. She is a fair-minded child. When she sees that all the blue flowers have ended up on her father's grave she redistributes some of them to lie in front of Marian's wooden cross instead. They are her personal favourites and she doesn't want one person to lack something that another got in abundance. Perhaps she is a child of the revolution, a spawn of romanticism in a world which thinks an idealist is a sympathetic fool and attributes such absurdities to the folly of youth. I wish she never grows hard. I wish she always dares to dream, even when people consider her naïve. I wish the bright eyes of this child never fade to bitterness, like so many have before her.

When she is satisfied she walks away. For a couple of steps she keeps calm because the solemn setting of the cemetery, then she pulls up her skirt and starts to run. The wind tugs the strands of chestnut hair which Robin used to brush so carefully, disentangling one tangle after another in some sort of ceremony which must have reminded him of Marian. Now her hair reminds me of him instead.

I smile when I watch her because I love this child, and she was the greatest gift Robin could give me. He would not have trusted her with me had he not loved me in some part of his soul which the ghost of Marian failed to claim in death. Then I turn back and stroke absently over Robin's cross.

"Goodbye, my love," I say before I turn to leave this place behind. Then I stop for a moment and glance at the other cross, crouch down and trail my finger across the name which has been carved into the wood.

"Lady Marian Fitzwalter of Locksley and Knighton – Beloved Wife and Mother, Valiant Fighter for England, Watcher of the Night. _Requiscat in Pace,_" I read.

I never even met this woman but she has affected my life more than most people, her absence so ear splittingly loud that it seemed to fill up entire rooms. She is the ghost who held the heart of my lover, the name he shouted in his final battle cry, his greatest joy and sorrow. I smile and arrange the flowers better on the ground, then I make a little bow.

"Thank you for letting me borrow him for a while, my lady," I say before I rise and turn my back on another chapter of my life.

With Isabella by my side I leave Nottinghamshire on the northern road through Sherwood, but this time I am not fooled by the tranquillity of nature. A woman must be careful when she walks such a lonely road, and I keep a wary eye on the surroundings. Then Bella's hand is in mine again and I look down at her. The sun freckles the road before us as it filters down beneath the foliage and there is the sound of a humming bee, dancing in circles around our warm bodies.

"You know what Bella, I think I feel a story coming on," I smile at Robin and Marian's daughter. Her face lights up with joy and she gives me the toothless grin of a seven year old. ¨

"Sing about the time my dad fought Little John on the bridge across the river," she grins and I give her a surprised look. Then I laugh out loud and start to tune my harp, already forming the words of the story in my head.

"I will," I smile. "But you will have to help me."

"It will have to start 'Once upon a time in Sherwood'," she states severely with a single nod.

"Ay, so be it then. _'Once upon a time,"_ I recite in a clear voice as I randomly pick the strings of my harp._ "In Sherwood Forest, there was a man who calleth himself Robin Hoode…'_"

--

I am a woman who is in love with a ghost.

Now that Robin is dead I think I understand him much better then I ever did in his lifetime. I know now how it is to be haunted - not by the ghost but by a lingering love which drifts directionless like the seed of a dandelion. He is my Marian.

I gave my life to Robin, now I guard what is left of his. Perhaps you think about the legend, the stories told, the songs sung, the memory kept alive - but that is only half of the burden and blessing. The other part is Isabella.

I like to think there are two sides to every hero – the legend and the human behind it. Anyone could tell you about the legend of Robin Hood but it takes a special kind of eye to see the man, and a special kind of heart to love the man more than the legend. The former I have but I am not so sure about the latter. It is easy to say 'I love you' but if someone asks you 'why?', then that response is not so easily spun - not even for me, who views words as a tailor views the yarn. It is my raw material.

This is the end of the story, and I will finish with an excuse because I fear that I have lied to you. Once I said that this story is mine but it is not. It belongs to the ghosts, to Robin Hood and Lady Marian. Me, I am merely the bard. I am the eyes and the voice and the heart which beats behind it.

My name is Denise Digby and I am the last lover of Robin Hood. This is my farewell.

_ Le Fin _

**_A/N_: This was the final chapter. Ty for reading and I hope you have enjoyed this rather unusual piece of fanfiction. **

**xxxTrixxx**


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